Poets

It was not me, who beside the sea, Stumbled upon the shrapnel, The bombs that fell, the flesh that bled, The emptiness that was left instead,

I'll see you at my funeral and I'll smile, For the first time, I'll realize why, all those times you cried, For once I'll understand, your tears were a gift that I didn't accept, Now they are your curse.

Vapid, dry and isolated, That's how we leave them. Cold, frozen even, Do you understand why we leave them there?